So I have been out of action over here for a while - *kicks computer*

And I have so much I'm supposed to be doing for school, so I'm obviously not doing it and instead I'm flicking through all of my old 'fics for inspiration to write a new original!fic. [ I think maybe... I abanonded fanfic???! ]

But, I found this one. I don't think I ever finished it, but it really doesn't require an end. It's a major joke, and who knows, you'll probably think it's stupid. So I'm not likely to finish it (but I don't want to close that door) but like I said it doesn't need and end at all! So yeah!

Enjoy. Hopefully. :P

ADDED FOR GOOD MEASURE: This is so NOT a dig at Jo. I'm one of the people that actually like her as a character - so don't for a second think this is a dig at her :)

The Fic Written as a Joke That Is To Remain Untitled Most Likely.

Jo’s always been a try-hard. Dean could see that.

Dean: And HOW long did it take for someone else to realise that?

He could see it the moment he walked into the Roadhouse, the very moment she pushed that rifle into his back (without mention of the fact her plan was not, in fact, foolproof) and the exact second that her mother marched out of the back room with Sam at the barrel of hers’.

Sam: *puzzled* At the barrel of hers… what?
Dean: You always make things dirty, Sammy. I knew you fancied Ellen all along… just like I knew Jo was a try hard.

She’s always been a kid playing in the grown up’s world; her goal of becoming a hunter always just a little out of her grasp, and her naïve attempts to grab it failing quite miserably. For a while back there, she thought she was a hunter, but hunting, really, is beyond the girl’s wildest dreams.

Dean: Like me.

She’d be the underdog in any kind of fight, he knows, and he can also see the way she’s trying to fight off that school girl reputation (and how that’s also failing miserably). It’s almost enough to make him laugh when she walks into Harvelle’s for the first time.

Sam: But I thought… well, she kind of lives there?
Dean: *equally as puzzled* Maybe it’s not really Jo! Maybe she’s a… a…
Sam & Dean: DEMON!
Sam: EEP! *dives under covers*

The first time, only because the old Harvelle’s had been involved in a nasty game of demonic demolition derby, and Ellen had decided to rebuild. Missouri this time, though, because a) the hunters seem to be flocking there, these days, and b ) well, Nebraska was just a little close to home.

Sam: *resurfaces* Oh.
Dean: Oh.
Sam: I always thought Ash blew up the place.
Dean: How would Ash do that?
Sam: *shrugs* Doing experiments in his room.
Dean: *shudders*

The twenty-four year old’s knee-high black leather boots, covered slightly by the leg of her jeans, but nonetheless decorated with mud and, what Dean can only assume to be blood stains (hopefully not hers) look ridiculous in contrast to the rest of the patron’s attire; denim (jackets and jeans), with plaid shirts (and mullets, which makes Sam raise and eyebrow when they first enter).

Dean: *drools slightly*
Sam: *sigh* I miss Ash. He was cool. So much cooler than you, Dean.

Not to mention the tight jean’s she’s concealed her weapon of choice into (yes, the knife her father gave her), and her flowing golden blonde hair. Come to think of it, she’s the kind of girl that Dean would usually go for… but Jo, is, well, Jo, and that isn’t happening. Not in a million years.

Dean: *drools*
Sam: Ha ha. You’re not getting the girl this time, Dean.
Dean: *snaps back to reality* Course I will, Sammy. Have a little faith…

She strides into the bar like she owns the place (well, that isn’t too far from the truth), and Dean can see any amount of eyes following her through the Roadhouse as she makes her way up to the bar (and him), and if it weren’t for the broken collar bone he’d obtained from that nasty spirit back in Ohio, he just may have felt the urge to ruffle a few feathers in that respect.

Dean: Why am I always the one who gets beaten up? *punches Sam* There.

It’s like an older brother thing.

Sam: But you’re my older brother… not hers! *is jealousness*

“Hey,” Her voice is coy; like what she’s really saying is ‘hey, look at me. I’m hot’, and he shoots her his trademark smirk, because it’s the easiest thing that he can think of to do. “What’s up?”

Dean: The Sky!

“Nothing.”

The world is ending, and they haven’t slept for a good six months. Dean’s dying, slowly, and he’s going to go to Hell, but nothing’s ‘up’. He doesn’t bother to ask her, because honestly, he can’t be bothered. She elaborates anyway.

“Well, I’ve been down in Texas for a couple months now,”

Dean: Yeehaw!

“Yeehaw.” He interjects unenthusiastically. Because he’s Dean, and he’s sarcastic like that.

Sam: *rolls eyes*

“And you know, there’s not much action down there,”

Dean: *Downstairs Brain* Action… tehe.
Sam: *Upstairs Brain*
Dean: …
Sam: So the world’s only ending in our neck of the woods, then?

“That’s great.” He reaches for the whiskey Ellen’s laid down on the bar for him. She leans back against the wall behind the bar, looking almost as interested in her daughter’s ventures as Dean is.

Dean & Sam: Hey Ellen.

“So I thought I’d come on down to Missouri, you know, check out the local hunts and stuff. See what I can get.”

Sam: A good smack around the head.
Dean: Nothing in those fugly jeans!

‘You’re not a hunter,’ he wants to scoff, but stays quiet and stares at his glass.

Sam: Dean, don’t be rude.
Dean: Well she isn’t!

“Got anything you’re working on lately?” It sounds as casual as if she’s just asked him whether he’s read any books he’s enjoyed lately, but the general thought of Jo and hunting makes Dean want to laugh. The kind of bitter laugh that shoves it right back into the face of whoever it is you’re laughing at.

Dean: *nods* I’m so good at bitter!laughing now I’m destined for Hell.

Instead, he motions towards the sling gracing his left hand, “Kind of out of action here for a while,” Thanks for pointing it out, though.

Dean:… and?

“Oh, right. But there’s gotta be plenty of stuff to do around here, right?” She asks with the enthusiasm of a six year old at Christmas.

Sam: *daydreams about Christmas*

Dean shrugs, “Maybe.”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe you guys might have a hunt that you want to pawn off on me?”

Dean: Haha. Porn! She said Porn!
Sam: I think she meant pawn, as in, trade.
Dean: *is dejected* Oh.

There’s no point beating around the bush now, is there?

And there’s no point sugar-coating his answer, either.

Dean: Sugar!

“Nope.”

Sam: That was… blunt.

She looks dejected for a moment, but then covers it with a swift flick of her hair over her shoulder. “Okay. I was just thinking, seeing as you’re out of action, maybe you and Sam might have a hunt you need finishing off our something.”

Sam: *is mentioned*

He shakes his head again, dismissively. Even if they had a hunt, they wouldn’t be giving it to Jo anytime soon. “Nope.” He doesn’t think it deserves much more of an answer than this.

There’s silence for a moment. Dean takes another swig of whiskey, but Ellen would never allow Jo to drink the poison under her own roof, irrelevant of whether or not she’s over legal drinking age by three years, so Jo stares blankly down at the bar mat strung hastily along the bar.

Dean: Awkward.

“I’ve changed, you know,”

Sam: Clothes?
Dean: Into a demon?

“That’s good to know.”

Sam: *listens intently*

She looks at him, watching as he places his empty glass back down on the bar, “No, I mean, I’ve changed. I’m not that little kid you had to baby sit before, Dean. I’ve been hunting on my own for ages now, I know the drill.”

Dean: We… baby sat her? *dreams*
Sam: Not in a kinky way, Dean.
Dean: Damnit.

“Ages?” He looks at her, semi-quizzically, semi-accusingly, and mostly annoyed. “Like, six months, ages?” He doesn’t wait for a response to continue, “I’ve been hunting all of my life. Come back in twenty years, and yeah, maybe then we’ll let you finish up a hunt.” He says it with such calmness in his manner that Jo can tell the whiskey is starting to kick in.

Sam: Damn, you’re bitter.
Dean: Like a lemon, baby.

Thank God it is.

Because the look in his eyes right now is telling her that if it weren’t for the somewhat peaceful haze that the alcohol brought to him, he would have jumped right up and punched her.

Sam: Allow me.